


MAXWELL HAS A MICROPENIS

by mariachiMushroom



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Animal Death, BDSM, Blindfolds, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Gloves, Humiliation, M/M, Micropenis, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariachiMushroom/pseuds/mariachiMushroom
Summary: WILSON FUCKED A PUMPKIN.





	

“Be still, pet,” rumbled a deep voice from above. Wilson whimpered, braced on all fours, his arms and legs reduced to quivering jelly by hours of teasing and fucking. Behind him, the shadow puppet thrust with mechanical regularity, striking the sensitive place inside him over and over until he was delirious with pleasure. His prick hung heavy and aching between his legs, but he dared not stroke it until he was given the command. Tears soaked the cloth of his blindfold.

“Can’t—” His body trembled, ready to give out at any moment.

“You will.” A hand grasped his jaw, ungloved, a rare treat. When a thumb prodded his lips, Wilson sucked at the bare digit greedily, desperately, seeking to please the man who held the key to his release. 

“Little slut,” said Maxwell fondly. Wilson nodded in agreement. He’d done so many shameful things by his master’s command: wearing ropes under his clothing, kissing the ground under Maxwell’s feet, stroking himself to completion in the middle of the pig village, and yet he came back hungry for more. Oh god, he would follow that voice and that man to the ends of the earth.

Maxwell withdrew his fingers from Wilson’s mouth. Wilson wanted to chase the touch, craved the warmth and the contact, but in the end, he held still, obedient to the last.

“Tell me what you want,” commanded Maxwell, in a strained voice. “Let's hear it.”

“I—ahh!” A thrust from behind squeezed the air from his lungs, his thoughts scattered by the mindnumbing pleasure. Maxwell chuckled.

“Don’t let me keep you from speaking.” The thrusts of the shadow puppet stilled with its phantasmal prick deep inside Wilson, filling him so sweetly. He panted, gathering his thoughts. This was his chance, Wilson knew, to beg and plead and finally be rewarded. He had only to ask, and a warm hand would grasp his aching prick to guide him to sweet oblivion. But oh, he was so greedy.

“Please, let me suck you. I want to taste—” A slap cut off the rest of his sentence. Maxwell tore the blindfold off, the better for Wilson to see the furious light in his eyes. Maxwell hated it when he went off-script.

“You haven’t earned that privilege!” snarled Maxwell. Wilson cried out in disappointment as the shadow puppet dissolved, leaving him empty. He made no resistance to being pushed onto his back, his prick hitting his stomach with a wet slap. Maxwell loomed over him, still fully clothed, his brow furrowed with rage. The difference between the two was so stark, one naked and prone and leaking fluids from every orifice, the other stern and cold and so, so distant.

“You’re lucky I even bother to help you out, pal. Without me, you’d still be fucking pumpkins.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Wilson babbled. “I just thought—” 

“Save your thinking for science. Now I’m going to ask you again. What do you want?”

“To spend, please, I can’t take it anymore!” If there was one thing Wilson had gotten very good at, it was begging. Maxwell planted his foot on Wilson’s prick, grinding it into his stomach. That contact, cold and hard though it was, was enough to send Wilson over the edge. He bucked and shuddered through his completion, all while Maxwell stared at him with an inscrutable hunger. 

The crests of pleasure faded and a wave of exhaustion hit. Wilson lay there, completely spent, limp as a cut vine. Maxwell bent down and examined the slap mark on Wilson’s face.

“That’s going to leave a mark. Needs salve.” Maxwell motioned to get up, but Wilson tugged at his ankles.

“Stay.”

“Fine, but it’s your fault if you wake up with a black eye.” 

“What did I do wrong?” asked Wilson.

“Pal, there’s some things you should never ask for.”

“Why?” The question hung in the air. Wilson didn’t press it for now, but the question still bothered him. Maxwell sat next to Wilson, running his fingers through his hair. He’d put his gloves back on, and while the leather was warm enough, Wilson craved skin.

Maxwell always kept himself at a distance, even when they were engaging in the most intimate acts. For all that they’d been fucking for the past few seasons, Maxwell had never shown any skin beyond his wrists. He even slept in that damn suit. Sure, he needed to stay as dapper as possible to ward off the shadows, but if Wilson could trust Maxwell to stick a finger up his butt, surely Maxwell could trust Wilson with a little skin.

It was enough to make Wilson question whether Maxwell was attracted to him at all. Whether this was just another cruel prank by a master puppeteer. Maxwell always made sure he spent, sometimes multiple times, but he’d never seen Maxwell spend himself. And Wilson had only been sodomized by shadow puppet intermediaries while Maxwell watched and directed. But it wouldn’t be out of character for Maxwell to deny himself pleasure if it would ruin his image. Perhaps he made a particularly embarrassing face when he spent?

“Water?” Wilson croaked, partially to assuage himself that Maxwell actually cared about him. Maxwell stood up and went to the spare crockpot, scooping a wooden cup against the bottom. He handed the lukewarm water to Wilson, who drank gratefully.

“We’re out. I’ll fetch more, and grab a bath while I’m at it. Don’t forget to clean up before putting your clothes on. I  _ will _ be checking.” With a final pat on Wilson’s head, Maxwell walked in the direction of the meadow, leaving Wilson curled up in an exhausted heap. What did he need to take a bath for anyway? Wilson was the one covered with drying fluids. 

By the time Wilson felt like moving again, the semen and lube on his body had dried to a crackly translucent skin. He stood up, wincing at the soreness in his bottom. Gross  _ and _ sticky. He really did need a bath.

There were several ponds near the camp. Wilson picked one at random and limped towards it, clothes in hand. Near his destination, a familiar pin-striped suit hung from a tree. Maxwell must have chosen this one to bathe in. And, if his suit was over here … 

Wilson knew that if he valued having a butt free of bruises, he ought to pretend he was never here and find another pond. But, curiosity was the foremost virtue of a scientist. What did Maxwell look like under his suit? Perhaps he had a tattoo, or a birthmark. Or something stranger, like a conjoined evil twin. 

Wilson crouched down and crawled to the nearest berry bush. From this angle, he could see Maxwell’s naked back silhouetted against a fire, which he was using to dry himself with in lieu of a towel. Several scars stretched across his body from random monster attacks, but other than that, there was nothing unusual about him at all. What a disappointment. Wilson had been hoping for at least a deformed limb that he could practice amputating. 

Satisfied with his level of dryness, Maxwell stood up and stretched. His buttocks dimpled entrancingly as he moved. He turned around, and Wilson’s eyes made a beeline to the prick he had so hungered after earlier. 

There was nothing there. Wilson rubbed his eyes and looked again. Maxwell’s balls hung in the normal position but there was a distinct lack of a penile protuberance. Was it invisible?

Maxwell urinated onto the fire to put it out. He was definitely holding something to aim the stream, but it was dwarfed by the size of his hand. It dawned on Wilson that the problem with Maxwell’s penis was not that it was invisible, but that it was very, very, small.

The more he stared at Maxwell’s micropenis, the funnier the whole situation became. All of Maxwell’s accomplishments, his statues, his grandiose bragging and domineering personality, attached to a man whose prick was no bigger than the phalanx of his thumb. Wilson covered his mouth to stifle his giggles, but one escaped nonetheless.

“I’ll have you now, turkey dinner!” Maxwell burst through the bush, ax held high. Now Maxwell’s puny prick was hanging right in Wilson’s face and he burst into laughter. 

“What? What are you laughing at!” Maxwell roared.

“You—your—” Wilson managed to make out before another bout of laughter. Maxwell’s face approached the coloration of a beet as he realized what Wilson found so humorous. He grabbed his clothes from the tree and put them on, nearly tripping in his haste. He then stormed off in the opposite direction of camp.

Wilson, at last, was able to calm his hysterical convulsions. He wiped the tears from his eyes and sat up in good humor. He did feel a little bad about making fun of what was surely a sore spot for Maxwell but he couldn’t stay mad forever. Right?

***

Two days later, Wilson was getting worried. It wasn’t unusual for them to spend long periods of time apart, but they usually packed appropriately. Maxwell had only an ax and the clothes on his back. A hound attack could happen at any moment and he simply wasn’t prepared to survive it.

Wilson stuffed his backpack with healing supplies and jerky and set off to find his wayward companion, starting off in the direction he was last seen traveling. It was easy to see the tracks of Maxwell’s rage: boulders smashed into rocks, whole forests turned to charcoal, spider carcasses left strewn about. Wilson followed the trail with trepidation. Would he find a corpse at the end of it? 

The trail finally led him to a rocky zone. In the distance, he saw a tall black figure inciting a fight with an even taller black figure. Tallbird. Wilson swapped his backpack for a log suit and gripped his spear. He approaching with caution, surveying the scene. The source of the tallbird’s rage was obvious enough: a smashed egg with its precious yolk dribbling on the ground. Maxwell was clearly suffering from his two days of fighting the world. The hastily-constructed spear shook in his hands and a bloody gash marred his leg. 

The tallbird charged at Maxwell, who swung to the side, dodging its attack. But his feet caught on a crack in the ground, sending him sprawling onto his back. From the ground, Maxwell jabbed his spear up at the head of the bird, which pecked at the speartip, breaking it off. The tallbird crowed in victory and lunged downwards.

“Back off!” yelled Wilson, whacking the tallbird’s legs. The tallbird squawked and fell over, kicking its lanky legs in an undignified fashion. Wilson ran forward and stabbed the tallbird in its single eye, pinning it to the ground like a display insect. The tallbird’s thrashes grew weaker and weaker until it finally lay still, beak leaking blood. As soon as Wilson confirmed the tallbird was dead, he dug through his pockets for things to give Maxwell.

“Here, I have both poultice and salve, and you’ll want this jerky, oh wait, I left it in the backpack, let me go get it—”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Maxwell grabbed the medical supplies out of Wilson’s hands.

“Sure, like I didn’t just see you just try to commit suicide by tallbird.” 

“Have you come to mock me again? Was I not risible enough before?” Maxwell applied a handful of salve to his leg, wincing.

“Look, I’m sorry I laughed at you. But you should have told me about your … size in the first place.” 

“It’s none of your business.” Maxwell turned away, giving Wilson a good view of the painful gash on his back.

“Of course it’s my business, we’re fucking each other! You do all the work and I have all the fun. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Hearing you squeal under me is fun enough.”

“But it must be so tortuous, to be so close and not be able to spend.”

“Pal, you kid yourself if you think I’ve been celibate this whole time. That’s what the blindfold is for.”  Oh. Come to think of it, there would be times when Maxwell fell silent while the shadow puppets fucked him. Wilson always thought it was a weird power thing, but to know that Maxwell was secretly stroking himself right in front of him? That was an arousing image.

“You don’t have to do that alone,” said Wilson. “I mean, I could help you.” Maxwell had finished bandaging his arms and legs and was now awkwardly trying to slap a honey-slathered scrap of papyrus on his own back. Wilson grasped a sticky edge, only for Maxwell to pull away.

“I don’t need your pity,” spat Maxwell. Wilson needed to reach him before his stubborn pride killed him. He had to speak his language.

“A dog will lick his master’s wounds,” replied Wilson.

“Hmm?” Maxwell turned around at that non-sequitur to see Wilson kowtowing to him. 

“I chose to follow you. I don’t care about your size, you’re still the same to me as you were before. Let me serve you. I want to be your blanket. I want you to use my mouth as a cunt. I want to bandage your back before it gets horribly infected.”

“You’re too good for me, pet. Get up and help me.” Wilson sat up and smoothed down the sticky bandage over Maxwell’s back. 

“You know,” murmured Wilson in Maxwell’s ear, “what I said earlier is still true.”

“What?”

“I’d still like to suck you.”

“Hmph.” Maxwell was silent, long enough for Wilson to get concerned. 

“I mean, if you’d let me.”

“Pet, I’d say you’ve earned it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually think Maxwell has a micropenis, but I thought it was a fun idea to play around with.


End file.
